


midnight snack

by greenbriars



Series: it is no night to drown in [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Crack? i suppose, Established Relationship, M/M, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Smut, Vampire Tom Riddle, Vampires, Werewolf Harry Potter, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbriars/pseuds/greenbriars
Summary: Tom wakes up peckish, and wakes Harry up too.(Can be read as a standalone.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: it is no night to drown in [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727782
Comments: 15
Kudos: 224





	midnight snack

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first nsfw scene i've ever written for tomarry and i have no words

"Harry."

Harry's eyelashes don't even flutter.

" _Harry_."

Harry mumbles, shifting a little.

"Harry!"

Harry's eyes fly open, finally.

"What," he says, irritable once he realises there's no imminent danger. The sky outside is a deep bruise purple. There isn't the barest sliver of light coming through their blinds. "What is it."

"I'm _hungry_ ," Tom says, piteous. He tilts his face up to his lover's, where it's nestled in the joint between Harry's arm and shoulder.

Harry rolls his eyes, his eyelids already shuttering. He mumbles, "Go get one of your blood bags from the fridge. The sun isn't up yet."

"We're out," Tom whines. "I finished the last bag for dinner and Lucius hasn't come over to replenish them."

Harry throws an arm over his face, his breathing evening out. "Well, you'll just have to deal. Go back to sleep, it won't feel so bad then."

"Harry," Tom complains.

" _What_."

"Just let me... have a bit from you."

There's a pregnant pause. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not!"

"Tom. You drink human blood. I'm not human."

"You're human _now_."

Harry's eyes fly open, incredulous. "Tom. There's a reason werewolves and vampires are mortal enemies. You could make yourself sick!"

Tom huffs. "I'm sure it'll be fine. What's the worst than can happen? It's not like I can die."

"You could! People die from food poisoning all the time! Are you _insane_?"

"Now you're being dramatic. I just want a sip," he wheedles, affecting a pleading note to his tone. "And it's not like I'm doing it unsupervised."

"You're off your rocker. All this because you want a late-night snack?" He plants his hand in the middle of Tom's face and shoves it away.

Tom ducks under his palm, evading it. "Please, Harry. I'm just _so_ hungry." And he fixes his most pathetic, beseeching pout on his face.

Harry stares at him, incredulous.

"The Wizarding public ought to know their Minister is a complete idiot. Fine," he says, irritable even as he sits up. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Tom flashes him a dazzling smile. "I'll be fine. You're watching over me, after all."

Harry scowls, reluctantly charmed. "How do we do this? Do I just bare my neck?"

"Pretty much." Tom edges closer, the red in his eyes devouring the brown. His fangs extend, and there's a greedy, animalistic tint to his gaze. His hand comes up to cup Harry's jaw, and tilting it to the side so that Harry feels for all the world like cornered prey.

He bends down and inhales. Harry fights off a shiver.

"You smell so good," Tom whispers, hushed. He licks his lips. There's something in his voice, something feral and predatory. "So, so good."

"Tom..." he begins, warningly.

And then Tom bites down.

On a scale of pain from one to falling twenty feet from the air and landing on the pitch after a save gone wrong, this is barely more than a pinprick. The sharp, white teeth sink into his neck with the ease of a well-tended blade. It stings for a split-second, makes him squeeze his eyes shut and suck in a hissed breath.

And then Harry is swept away.

Vampire saliva contains a mild anticoagulant to facilitate feeding. It has analgesic properties, blunting the pain of being bitten and drained, and can sometimes make its victims sleepy. Extended feeding can lead to a temporary loss of sensation or awareness, or, if the vampire so wishes, a Turning.

All this Harry knows on a broad, scientific level.

What he isn't expecting is the waves of euphoria flooding his system. He feels calm and content, enveloped by a sense of fullness and safety. Tom cradles him closer, pressing him flush, and he tilts his head even further back. He moans, or Tom moans. Tom's skin, normally so cool, is warm to the touch. Either he's burning up, or Harry's temperature is falling. That's not dangerous, is it? He can't bring himself to care. He has a dizzying sense of falling, or floating, and perhaps he should feel panicked, being at the mercy of a werewolf's mortal enemy, but all he can feel is a deep, radiating sense of peace and pleasure. 

It's ecstasy.

"Tom," he groans, his hand fisting limply in Tom's hair.

"My love," Tom whispers, and when he raises his head he looks fierce and unnatural, his mouth all drenched in red, in the red of Harry's heart's blood.

A shot of arousal drives through him.

Harry drags his head closer, crushing their mouths together. There is an awful, metallic taste on Tom's tongue; rightfully it should be vile, but Harry just wants to fuse them together. He wants Tom's mouth back on him, mourns the loss of that obscene pleasure.

"My darling, I said I would only take a sip."

_All that, from just a sip?_

Harry makes a desperate, choked off sound, grinding his hips against Tom's. He's half-hard going on to fully hard; they both are. Tom's hands grip his waist, just this side of too rough. They rut against each other. Tom kisses up his collarbone until he arrives at the top of his neck, then sucks a lovely, painful bruise into the skin there.

Harry growls, urging him closer, urging him to break skin, but Tom only plants horrible, wonderful love-bites all down the column of his throat.

Down, down, down he goes. He pauses to suck a kiss on Harry's chest, where the blood rises eagerly to the surface, but he doesn't stop. He lowers himself further, scraping his teeth against Harry's hip-bone, his breath ghosting across the tender, thin skin there.

"My darling, my sweet one," Tom croons into the cradle of his hips. He tugs down Harry's boxers, pressing a sharp kiss to the sensitive skin on the inside of his left thigh. Harry shifts to accommodate him, his legs falling open, wanting, wanton. An unusually warm tongue flickers over the underside of his shaft, igniting blazing nerves.

Harry bucks up against his grip, cursing. His fingers wind into Tom's silky curls, nails digging into his scalp just this side of painful.

Tom traces the head of his cock with his tongue, and then swallows him down.

Tom's mouth is hot on him, hot and wet as he sucks him down. He's always been greedy with it, prone to forcing Harry's knees apart with too much force to take, to _taste_ —Harry arches against him, eager and mewling. Heat pools in his lower abdomen, rising fast and vicious, and when Tom purses his lips around the head of his cock, letting the moisture of his pre-cum mix with blood and saliva, Harry bucks clean off the bed.

"Tom," he growls, his mouth feeling too full of teeth, the shift strangely, frighteningly close to the surface. He flexes his claws— _hands_ , he has hands, burying them into loose waves. The silence of the night fills with the lewd sounds of skin on skin.

Tom traces his lips down his cock, humming against the skin. A tease. He's teasing him, his mouth curving with a stifled laugh, as he jerks him lazily, wrist loose. Harry presses his hips upward, demanding, and then Tom presses his teeth against the shaft, and it's the only warning Harry gets before he's dragging the point of his teeth down the shaft, quick and precise enough to draw blood.

A ruby-red drop wells up from the cut. A hot tongue laps at it, and euphoria bursts golden-bright behind Harry's eyelids.

"Tom!" he shouts, his hands tightening in his hair, his thighs clamping around the sides of his head. Pleasure surges up from his thigh, and the unhealed bite at his neck tingles too as if in tandem, as if tracing out a shimmering connection.

"Darling," Tom groans, growing flushed. He scores Harry's thigh with his nails, bending his head to to worry at the skin, to bring his blood to rushing to the surface and then lave at it, tender and rapturous. All the while, his hand pumps his eager, swelling cock. "How wonderful you taste."

"You monster," Harry retorts, but it's drenched in dizzying affection. His lip trembles, and his teeth catch on it.

" _Yes_ ," Tom hisses, and he looks up at him through a lace of dark lashes, his eyes flashing hungrily. _A monster, and all yours_. They're fully red now, red as heart's blood, and he licks at the scrape again. A lightning bolt of violent arousal lances through Harry. His cock is leaking now, twitching impatiently against Tom's stubborn, gorgeous mouth, and Harry yanks at his hair—gently—but the message is plain.

_Now, Tom, now._

"I think I'm full now," Tom whispers, smug and desirous. His voice is raw. "You'll have to ask nicely."

Harry nearly hits him, but Tom is still suckling gently at his skin, tonguing the slit of his cock as he presses down on the scrape, encouraging the blood to continue flowing. And it should hurt, but it doesn't—not even when Tom digs his thumbnail into the cut so that the blood wells up again, beading insistently along the inflamed edges.

"Fuck you," Harry grits out, and Tom flashes him a disarming smile. He reaches down to grip his cock—he just needs some relief, some _friction_ —but Tom snatches his hand away before it even comes close, that heart-stopping smile never fading. "Fine, _please_."

And Tom sucks him down completely, with a terribly smug air, as if he's saying, _That wasn't so hard, was it?_ His cheeks hollow out, his nose nuzzling the wiry hair at the base of Harry's cock.

Pleasure races through Harry from his crown to the base of his spine, almost painful, lighting up the bite marks like signal flares. His hips rock forward, desperate, frantic as Tom laps as the head, head dipping with urgency. Harry's hand tightens in Tom's hair—he's going to get a scolding for that later—and then his stomach tightens impossibly, and then the coil snaps.

His climax seizes him and he comes undone, overfilling with ecstasy, spilling into Tom's mouth without warning. It's a wild, pulsing pleasure, more demanding and unforgiving than the call of the moon, and Tom carries him through it. Afterwards, Harry sags into the bed, spent, damp with sweat, trembling. 

His lover swallows neatly, wiping at his mouth with a tapered index finger. He didn't choke, because he's undead and doesn't need oxygen and is a complete prat. Harry glares at him in a half-hearted way. 

"Is it like this every time?" he asks, and he's still a little breathless. His whole body feels liquid with contentment.

Tom smirks at him, gratified, and settles himself back against his side. The bites are still bleeding sluggishly, rejecting Harry's werewolf healing, but Tom evidently thinks he looks lovely with the imprint of his teeth on him. His canines lengthen again.

"It could be," he purrs as he snuggles closer, his voice rich and dark with promise. He bites his own thumb and smears his blood over the open wounds, which finally close over.

"Then I don't think I can let you drink from other humans anymore. Merlin, Tom." He turns over, closing his eyes and feigning a strop. "It's just not on."

Tom pouts, but when he pulls him close Harry swears he feels a warm huff of laughter on back of his neck, as unrepentant as ever.

#

Puddlemere United's star player comes to regret not paying better attention to his lover healing him the night before, because the very next day, plastered front page of the _Prophet_ 's Quidditch section is the Seeker himself, soaring through the air on his beloved Firebolt. For some reason, he's wearing a scarf despite the mild weather.

It takes all of fifteen minutes for the news to leak that the scarf was a personal gift from the oldest vampiric fashion designer alive, Hubert de Givenchy. Juicier still, it was last seen adorning the swan-like throat of the current Minister for Magic.

Only a few extremely devoted fans will note the extremely harried, pissed off expression on Harry Potter's face. 

Much later, the custodian doing the night rounds in the Ministry will walk past Minister Riddle's office and hear low, impatient voices. He will draw closer to eavesdrop, and just before he touches the door and is blasted back by the force of the privacy wards, he will hear one voice rising above the other in a vehement shout: "—never again! The scandal, Tom, _no more visible marks,_ or I swear to Merlin, I will hold you down and _bite you myself_!"

**Author's Note:**

> you know that stereotype of fanfic writers having suspicious google search histories? well, in order to write this chapter i straight-up asked my horrified guy friends if having teeth scape over their dicks would hurt and if so, how much? i had to reassure them that no i was not sucking dick in lockdown before they would give me a straight answer, which is: yes it hurts but sometimes that's okay or even enjoyable especially if done well (whatever that means). drawing blood is a hard (haha) no, but i figure tom would know what he's doing and in this au vampire saliva has some analgesic/anaesthetic qualities, so it would still work. make of this information what you will, i already regret everything


End file.
